Promises To Keep
by elfmage
Summary: Greg hides the darkness within him, but when it all becomes too much, he slips and lets Nick see. Can he be saved from himself? Does he even want to be saved? Warnings for mild slash N/G , self-injury/cutting, suicidal thoughts. Dark w/ a happy ending.
1. Chapter 1

**Promises To Keep**

**by elfmage**

**Author's notes:** This is my first foray into the wonderful world of CSI fanfiction (and the first writing I've done in a long time), but I'm so inspired by The Love that I can't help myself. I hope the characters aren't too OOC, given the nature of the story I think a little behavioural change is warranted. This story is six chapters long (each chapter is only between 4 and 7 pages long), and is already completed, so don't worry, the writer's block has already passed! I wrote this story because it was what I wanted to read (feel free to take the challenge to write a super angsty H/C fic featuring depressed!Greg and/or self-injuring!Greg). Please review, just so I know if this is any good!

**Warnings:** Slash (**not** graphic, in any way, though. Just romantic, aww :P), self-mutilation (borderline graphic), suicidal thoughts, passing mentions of childhood physical/emotional abuse, and other heavy, angsty themes. And there is some swearing, hopefully nothing too offensive.

**Disclaimer:** Sadly, they're not mine. Oh the fun I'd have if they were. No profit is being made (also sad but true), but Bruckheimer deserves it for giving us such an awesome imaginative playground.

* * *

"_The woods are lovely, dark and deep.  
But I have promises to keep,  
And miles to go before I sleep,  
And miles to go before I sleep."_

- Robert Frost, Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening

The corridors were echoing and empty when CSI Nick Stokes walked casually down them; heading for the maze of labs, and in search of one errant lab-rat. Greg was _supposed_ to meet him in the locker rooms at the end of shift, but after waiting 15 minutes, Nick good-humouredly decided to go searching. His deep brown eyes flickered over successive empty rooms, in vain, for his hyperactive boyfriend.

_Not_, Nick mused, _that Greggo has been his old irrepressible self for some time now._

With that thought came the familiar onslaught of concern, once again making Nick's mouth tighten with worry. He didn't doubt their relationship or Greg's devotion to him – and it was certainly reciprocated (whole-heartedly) – but lately something had just been _off_ with his partner. It was like a shadow that hung around Nick's peripheral vision; a shadow of something dark and dangerous that he saw, fleetingly, in the depths of Greg's eyes; a shadow of despair that flittered across Greg's face, like clouds racing across the sun, whenever he thought no-one was looking; a shadow of guilt, as Greg automatically pulled his sleeves down lower.

The lines on Nick's face grew deeper and taut at the last item on the list.

_For a CSI I've been so blind. And for a boyfriend… God, how did I miss it?_

Tonight had been set aside, designated by Nick for A Talk; and Greg, who'd been increasingly wary and nervous – even given his penchant for over-caffeinating and the resulting neurosis – throughout the day, clearly had some idea of what was coming. And now he had suspiciously neglected to show up when they had arranged.

Nick increased his speed dramatically as the implications of this conspicuous absence, along with his suspicions, wreaked havoc upon his imagination.

With good reason, it seemed.

As he was about to declare the search futile – _maybe I just missed him in this maze, passed like two ships in the night?_ – he caught a glimpse, that peripheral shadow, of a familiar dirty blonde mop of hair, only just visible above the desk and with the light of the sole desk lamp reflecting off of it's lank strands.

"Greggo?" Nick's voice rang hesitantly, uncertainly in his ears.

"Greg?" he repeated, stepping further into the room, the corner concealing his errant lover slowly coming into view. Greg was splayed on the floor, legs haphazardly folded beneath him, labcoat discarded beside him, shirtsleeves rolled up, oblivious to the world…

"GREG!"

As the pool of light illuminated the silver flash of steel and the absorbent depths of crimson trails, Nick's heart leapt into his mouth and he bolted forwards, almost stumbling in his haste; Greg's name tore from his throat without thought, and he skidded to a halt, crashing to his knees on the cold polished floor without notice, large hands automatically moving to grip his boyfriend's shoulders in a vice-like grip.

"Greg? Greg!? God, oh, God, are you ok? What've you done sweetheart?"

Sleepy – _no, not sleepy, catatonic, dead, absent, but not sleepy, nothing so trivial as merely 'sleepy' _Nick's mile-a-minute thoughts asserted – brown eyes raised, unfocused confusion giving way to despair.

"Nick? Wha…?"

Such confusion, completely uncharacteristic of Greg Sander's brilliant mind, told Nick that he should take charge, and _now_. Leaving one hand as a reassuring warm weight on his boyfriend's shoulder, the other gently plucked the offending object of self-destruction – a wicked-looking boxcutter – from Greg's hand, discarding it on the floor, making sure it was out of reach. Steeling himself, Nick began to examine the damage the younger man had wrought upon himself.

Both of his forearms, up to and including the sensitive skin on his inner elbows – at which point Nick's mind irrelevantly reminded him of his own hatred of needles, wincing at the pain injuring such an area _had_ to cause – _God, did Greg even feel the pain?_ _Oh, Greggo…_ both of them were covered in jagged red cuts, taking up every available inch. Blood was smeared and still flowing at a rate that frightened the concerned lover and friend in Nick; it wasn't lethal, but it was still damaging and even more terrifying in the causative damage that it hinted at.

Gashes, of varying size, gaped at him angrily, a silent accusation of his _failure to notice sooner, to have done something _– Nick paused in his self-recrimination, as Greg began to stir more energetically, shifting his awkward seated position.

"Nick?" Greg looked down, seemingly seeing, for the first time, the destruction of his own doing. "Shit, Nick, I didn't… I mean… Shit. I'm sorry, you… you weren't meant to see, God I didn't want you to see, please don't hate me, please, please don't hate me." His voice wavered and trailed off towards the end of his outburst, breaking down into a pleading sob as he clutched at the hand still firmly in place on his shoulder.

"Hey, hey, c'mon Greggo, calm down hon, it's ok, it's ok…" Nick repeated the soothing platitudes, gathering his lover into his arms, gentle and reassuring as a lovingly draped blanket on a cold winter's day. "It's ok, you're ok, it's ok…" He rubbed a calming hand up and down Greg's back, trying to steady the panicked breathing that was interrupted by the soft pleas. His own desperation and worry took hold and his muscular arms tightened their hold, trying to convey a sense of security to the defeated man he cradled.

"We're ok, it's ok, it's ok, it's ok…"


	2. Chapter 2

When Greg's panic had receded, and Nick had composed himself enough to deal with the situation – once his overwhelming need to just hold onto Greg and reassure him that he hadn't lost him, not yet, had been overcome – the older man reluctantly withdrew a

**Author's notes:** Thanks to those who reviewed/favourited this story! Here's the second chapter – not sure what sort of updating schedule I should keep, but I'll try not to leave you hanging for too long.

**Warnings:** Slash (**not** graphic, in any way, though. Just romantic, aww :P), self-mutilation (borderline graphic), suicidal thoughts, passing mentions of childhood physical/emotional abuse, and other heavy, angsty themes. And there is some swearing, hopefully nothing too offensive.

**Disclaimer:** Sadly, they're not mine. Oh the fun I'd have if they were. No profit is being made (also sad, but true), but Bruckheimer deserves it for giving us such an awesome imaginative playground.

When Greg's panic had receded, and Nick had composed himself enough to deal with the situation – once his overwhelming need to just hold onto Greg and reassure him that he hadn't lost him, _not yet_, had been overcome – the older man reluctantly withdrew a little. Though their desperate embrace seemed to last an eternity, the real time had been short, and Greg was still losing blood – _too much, c'mon Stokes, get it together, stop the bleeding_.

Nick's attempts to fetch the first-aid kit were soon thwarted, as Greg returned to his previous near-catatonic state, refusing to relinquish the comfort of his boyfriend's presence for as much as a second.

"Greg, seriously darlin', you've gotta help me out here… some of these're pretty bad. God, maybe we should take you to a hospital…"

The object of his concern awoke from his stupor at the last comment, emphatically dissenting, and raising Nick's concern to yet higher levels by shaking his head and visibly becoming dizzy as a result.

"No… please Nicky, can we just go… go home?"

One glance at the large brown eyes, beseeching and beguiling, and Nick knew there'd be no impromptu visits to the hospital that evening. Tiredness crept in, in the wake of the adrenaline surge and the returning despair over his lover's current state of mind, and he hated his own weakness in being inclined to agree.

He sighed.

"Ok… but we've gotta get you a little cleaned up before we go dripping blood on the car seats, yeah buddy?"

The attempt at levity seemed misplaced, and he regretted having forced it out.

"But, Greggo… I said I wanted to talk tonight, and I mean it… and I think, after tonight, hell, that talk is way overdue, don't you?"

Greg's lips thinned and his gaze became downcast; nonetheless, he eventually, and reluctantly, nodded. Nick tightened his grip on the thin shoulders, squeezing reassuringly, before awkwardly maneuvering the both of them into an upright stance.

Doubt once again besieged Nick as his lover slumped weakly against him at the change in altitude, Greg's dull brown eyes briefly losing their focus; but then, as though sensing his internal debate, Greg stubbornly righted himself, looking Nick directly in the eyes (_and hasn't _Nick reflected _it been a long time since he willingly did __that__?_), and reaffirming;

"No hospital."

There was a pause, and a two sighs echoed in the cold and empty room.

"Let's get you cleaned up a bit, sweetheart. Then home, where we can… talk."

"… yeah."

Nick then proceeded to drag the light-headed lab-rat to the nearest first-aid station in the maze of laboratories; the distance was short, but to the two emotionally overwrought men it seemed an eternity. The worse of the injuries on Greg's forearms – and Nick realised, with a sinking feeling, that _he probably had more elsewhere… God, how how HOW did I miss this?_ – were bandaged efficiently but quickly, sufficient for the ride back to their now shared apartment.

Greg dizzily clung to Nick as they wove their way through the maze of the CSI laboratories; fortunately, the building's deserted status meant no awkward questions about this notable closeness – or why Greg was wavering on his feet, shirt and slacks streaked with blood.

Nick was so intently focused on safely conveying his precious cargo that he almost walked into the side of his Denali; he turned to share a smile at the action, but when he glimpsed his boyfriend's face he was reminded that there had been precious little humour in Greg's world lately.

_And tonight only confirms that – why didn't I notice how bad things had become? Why did it take Greggo slashing himself up to make me realise?_

As if sensing Nick's self-deprecating thoughts, Greg seemed to startle back into awareness, seeking out Nick's large hand and squeezing it tight. The younger man's attempt at a smile was a pale shadow, a memory of his once-lighthearted grin, but it was an attempt nonetheless. Nick doubted that his reciprocal smile was any better, but it was a start.

The ride back to their apartment stretched into eternity, and was as silent as the blackest regions of space; with the radio off and both of the men lost in their own thoughts, the trip was a blur that neither really recalled afterwards.

_Fuck. Now he knows._ Greg's thoughts played in a loop of despairing self-loathing. _He knows how weak and pathetic and cowardly and fucked up his boyfriend is. He __**knows**__. He knows and now he'll want nothing to do with me, oh God. He'll leave, why would he want to be anywhere near a pathetic psycho like me?_

Sitting next to him (yet an immeasurable distance away, lost in his own world as he was), Nick's thoughts were similarly fearful;

_Does this mean he doesn't trust me? God, please Greggo, don't shut me out, let me help, God I'm so sorry I didn't see, that I didn't __**want**__ to see._ The Texan exhaled slowly, trying to gather his thoughts into some semblance of order. _What if he hid this from me because he doesn't think I care? Or… Oh, fuck, God, what if he hid it because… because he wanted to keep going, maybe even go that final step, without me knowing?_

Nick reached across that immense space between them, and grasped Greg's chilled hand within his own warm one. Twining their fingers together, he resolved himself; one way or another, tonight would bring answers, and, he hoped, resolution and the beginnings of healing.

The blonde DNA technician felt the darkness that plagued him (constantly, these days) lift a little at the familiar, comforting clasping of hands by the man he loved.

Maybe, maybe, maybe things could be ok again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's notes:** lol, well thank you to the one reviewer for last chapter - sasukesmyemo394, I dedicate this chapter to you! I hope the people reading just can't be bothered reviewing, please let me know if my writing really is that terrible!

**Warnings:** Slash (**not** graphic, in any way, though. Just romantic, aww :P), self-mutilation (borderline graphic), suicidal thoughts, passing mentions of childhood physical/emotional abuse, and other heavy, angsty themes. And there is some swearing, hopefully nothing too offensive.

**Disclaimer:** Sadly, they're not mine. Oh the fun I'd have if they were. No profit is being made (also sad, but true), but Bruckheimer deserves it for giving us such an awesome imaginative playground.

As they pulled into their allocated parking space, the handsome Texan blinked, suddenly realising that he had driven to that point on autopilot – the CSI in him (the one who dealt with crashes on a regular basis) cringed. Sighing at the sheer insanity of the night, he squeezed Greg's hand, bringing him back to the present, smiling gently at his boyfriend as the blonde brought his head up dazedly.

"Hey." He kept his voice gentle, as though afraid Greg would bolt at the first sign of a distressing syllable.

"Hey yourself." A weak imitation of his old personality, but at least he was trying. "Uhhh… as lovely as the interior of your car _is_, we going inside sometime tonight?"

"Oh. Yeah."

They stepped out of the car in unconscious co-ordination, and paused to contemplate one another at the boot of the Denali.

Again, that fleeting shadow flitted across Greg's face, more pronounced in the harsh electric lighting of the parking garage. He knew what was coming, and he dreaded it; the temptation to run was almost overwhelming, but he had to face it – where was he going to run?

As though sensing his thoughts, Nick gently, but firmly, placed his arm around Greg's thin shoulders (_had they gotten thinner lately?_ Nick couldn't help questioning) and steered him towards the stairwell entrance.

Greg kept his tired brown eyes downcast, suddenly finding an engaging interest in the carpeted hallways of their apartment building, his lover's arm across his shoulders a constant reminder of what was to come. Nick unlocked the door and pushed it open, depositing Greg on the couch as he hurriedly searched the bathroom cabinet for their well-stocked first-aid kit.

_Huh. At least, I __**thought**__ it was well-stocked, there should be more bandages in here than… Oh, shit. Shit!_

The realisation sunk in; realisation that Greg had done this before, badly enough to warrant bandaging, and more than once; realisation that Greg had had bandaged his self-inflicted gouged and torn flesh and he hadn't known.

All of a sudden, Greg's recent – and uncharacteristic – penchant for making love with the lights off, or even while wearing a shirt (_always long-sleeved_, Nick reflected), no longer seemed like an adorable form of experimentation, but instead took on more sinister connotations.

Despair almost overwhelmed the empathetic CSI as he began to wonder whether Greg's forearms were the only place that had suffered… or whether this had been going on longer than he thought, in more hidden places. As he walked back down the hall, cradling the green box, Nick searched his memory, trying to recall when he had last seen his lover naked in any kind of light.

The answer was not comforting.

Re-entering the lounge room, Nick shook his head to refocus; for now, he had to get Greg's immediate wounds taken care of. The rest – the answers to a thousand burning questions that _he wanted answers to, __**now**_– would simply have to wait.

Greg sat limply and dejectedly on the couch, head hanging and gaze downcast, exactly where Nick had left him. _At least that means he hasn't done any more damage_. Nick cringed at the thought; once he was done here, he'd certainly be removing any potentially dangerous objects from easy access.

"Ok sweetheart, I'm going to clean you up now, ok?" He knew he was repeating himself, but couldn't help it – it was like talking to a frightened animal; soothing nonsense.

Gently, gently, Nick extended first the left arm and started peeling back the long sleeved shirt (_now I know why he won't even wear that blue t-shirt he loves so much anymore_), cringing in sympathy as the cloth stuck and crackled and ripped dried blood from slashed and severed skin. His worry only increased when Greg didn't appear to react to the painful stimulus, staring into the middle distance, staring into whatever dark world he was inhabiting these days.

The sterile wipes in the first aid kit quickly turned a deepening shade of red as Nick cleaned more and more blood from Greg's arm, revealing the array of cuts and gashes. Moving on to the right arm, the supply of cloths was rapidly depleted as the older man worked on cleaning his lover's bloodied figure to what he deemed an acceptable extent.

He then began to conceal the torn flesh with bright white bandages; the brunette bowed his head solemnly as the destruction came into clearer view; he closed his eyes and a muscle in his jaw clenched as he fought to keep control of the situation.

At that moment, Greg came out of his shadowy world; seeing the apparent anger on his boyfriend's face, he cringed.

_I knew he'd hate me for this, God, he's going to leave me isn't he? He hates me he hates me he hates me_ –

So great was his distress that Greg didn't realise he had begun muttering his despairing, distraught, disconnected thoughts aloud.

"He hates me he hates me he hates me he – "

Before the thin lab-rat knew what was happening, he found himself crushed against the broad chest of his boyfriend, muscular arms wrapped unhesitatingly and immovably around his back, one strong hand grasping the back of his neck and holding him in place.

"I love you Greg, d'ya hear me? I **love** you." Emotion thickened Nick's drawl, and cracked his voice as it raised emphatically, his grip on Greg tightening unconsciously. He placed a gentle hand under the younger man's chin, tilting his head upwards, kissing him (long and slow, full of desire and despair) before separating and looking intensely into Greg's sad eyes.

"I love you."


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's notes:** thank you very much to those who reviewed and added me to my favourite  You made my day! I hope the people reading just can't be bothered reviewing, please let me know if my writing really is that terrible! Sorry for the delay in updating, the workload this semester is quite insane. I'll try to be a little more punctual with the next one.

**Warnings:** Slash (**not** graphic, in any way, though. Just romantic, aww :P), self-mutilation (borderline graphic), suicidal thoughts, passing mentions of childhood physical/emotional abuse, and other heavy, angsty themes. And there is some swearing, hopefully nothing too offensive.

**Disclaimer:** Sadly, they're not mine. Oh the fun I'd have if they were. No profit is being made (also sad, but true), but Bruckheimer deserves it for giving us such an awesome imaginative playground.

* * *

As the moon rose high above the plains surrounding Las Vegas, Nick stirred slightly, awoken more by the pain in his still-tightly wound arms than by the bright LED lights that lent a garish glow to the room. He smiled as he looked down at the exhausted young man cradled in his embrace, his smile fading as he took in the blood-spotted bandages encircling wiry forearms.

Closing his eyes again, he planted a gentle kiss on the top of Greg's head, content to stay a while longer and simply hold him, reassure himself that he hadn't lost the man he loved (or himself).

Abandoning his comfortable procrastination, Nick shook Greg's shoulders carefully, trying to avoid jostling the younger man's mutilated arms.

"C'mon darlin', time to wake up."

The object of his affection moaned disagreeably, burying his face further in the warmth of Nick's chest; now that determination had set in, however, Nick was not to be easily dissuaded. He again shook the younger man, this time eliciting a more emphatic groan, and encouragingly prodded him (though perhaps more gently than was strictly conducive to his purpose).

"Wha? Can't we go back to sleep?" the slightly pleading, and almost petulant, tone in Greg's voice was unmistakable.

"Hey, c'mon, we need to talk."

Nick's voice was serious and weighted with concern, despite his inability to deny the adorable sight cradled in his strong arms. At 'the dreaded T word', he felt Greg suddenly stiffen and withdraw into himself; although he was still held close, it seemed as though there was an almost insurmountable distance between them.

**Almost** insurmountable.

What Greg – sheltered as he was in his emotional cocoon – had failed to account for was Nick's single-minded determination, borne of concern and deep and unselfish love; Nick's determination to save him from himself. To save him from the shadows that lurked in the depths of his soul, tormenting him.

"… Maybe later. I need a shower," Greg replied, the tension resounding in his strained and clipped speech.

Having made this announcement, Greg finally attempted to rouse himself, pulling away from Nick and rising from his secure place upon the couch.

Or, at least, he _tried_ to.

Muscles flexed briefly under tanned skin, and the thin lab-tech was pulled back into loving arms – loving arms attached to a loving man, who was not about to be discouraged from holding (what he was rapidly coming to understand would be) one of the most important conversations of his life.

"Sorry darlin', not this time. No 'maybe', no 'later', no 'it doesn't matter'," he whispered.

Pausing to gather his thoughts, he ran a hand – infinitely gentle – over the stained bandages that were a reminder of his past failure to address such a crucial issue. Greg began to struggle; animatedly at first, before resigning himself to a half-hearted squirm. Finally, he sagged against Nick, allowing the Texan to feel the shuddering breaths that shook the younger man, as he struggled not to cry.

"Why?"

"Why what?" Greg was too tired, to defeated, too damn apathetic to even try for his usual flippancy. "I could ask you why… why does it matter? Why do you want to know? Why…" his voice cracked, "… why do you care?"

That was what he wanted to know, above everything else; he had spent so long, convinced, convincing himself, that no-one would care, that it didn't matter because he didn't matter so _why would anyone care?_

Nick pushed aside his own hurt at the question (_how could he even wonder that?_), reminding himself that it was a deeper, darker insecurity driving Greg's words.

"Why? Why do you have to…" he struggled, his mind still wanting to deny the self-destructive carnage he had witnessed the night before; he steeled himself and continued, "… why do you have to slash yourself up like that? What's going on with you Greggo?" his voice cracked, despite his best efforts; "What's wrong? God, please Greg, please, just tell me how I can help."

Greg emitted a strangled sob, his empty emotional shelter, the dark abyss he had been hiding himself in, beginning to fade into smoke and mirrors under the bright light Nick was shining into his soul.

As though sensing this, Nick began unwinding the bandages, as gently as was humanly possible. It was a slow process, but soon the scores of vicious gashes – and the intricate pattern of older scars – began to emerge. Nick swallowed harshly, before running a feather-like fingertip along the line of an older line.

"Please, I love you, I just want to help…"

The instant that the last syllable left his lips, it was as though a switch had been flipped, and Greg gave way to the overwhelming despair and desperation that had been threatening to destroy him for so long now.

Wrenching himself free of his anchor, the love that kept him from falling over the knife-edge of that deadly depth, he spun out of control, ricocheting off of the furniture, off of the debris of abuse and self-doubt that cluttered his mind, distracting him and turning all his thoughts to darkness.

"STOP IT! Why do you care!?"

The crash of the overturned coffee table accompanied his outburst, and Nick leapt to his feet, fear – not for himself, but for the well-being, the very _sanity_ of the man before him – flaring in his eyes, his open mouth, his hands half-raised in some unconscious gesture of appeal.

"I'm worthless, I can't do anything right, and I _don't deserve you_!" Greg careened into the armchair, knocking it and stumbling forward; Nick's attempt at approach was met with a wild, animalistic retreat.

"Woah, hey, Greggo, calm –"

Nick was abruptly cut off as Greg turned to punch the wall that he had retreated to, his knuckles connecting with the plaster and concrete with a force that made the older man wince.

(Second one: Nick started forward at the first sign of this shrinking self-restraint, realising that Greg was about to totally lose control and do real damage.)

"I'm a. Worthless. Piece. Of. Shit," each statement was accompanied by another bone-crushing impact with the unforgiving wall of their apartment. "You shouldn't care about me, I don't deserve it, YOU SHOULDN'T CARE ABOUT ME!"

(Second two: Nick stepped around the debris created by a frightening rage, desperate to reach his lover before further damage was done.)

With this final outburst, Greg smashed a half-empty glass – previously sitting on the end-table – against the wall, the fragments shattering into his hand, slicing at his face as they went flying past with frightening force. He raised a wicked-looking shard, pushed the point hard and deep into his arm, and –

– was promptly tackled by Nick and wrestled to the ground, the offending weapon thrown clear across the room, and Greg found himself restrained and immobile on the now-cluttered floor, unable to move despite his muted screams and furious struggling, the older CSI's muscular form atop him efficiently incapacitating him. He attempted to channel his frustration by smashing his head against the wooden floorboards, but was quickly thwarted by a hand that slid itself between the genius and his intended destruction, crushing him closer into the immovable weight above him.

In three seconds, Nick had witnessed his boyfriend coming completely undone.

Even as he tried to ensure Greg had no way of injuring himself, the analytical, rational, calm and detached part of his mind – the part that made him such a brilliant CSI – was trying to tell him that what he had just witnessed was not merely a temper tantrum or minor emotional upset, but a psychotic break.

And now he had to try and put Greg back together again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's notes:** thank you very much to those who reviewed and added me to my favourite :) You made my day! Please let me know what you think! Sorry for the delay in updating, the workload this semester is quite insane. I'll try to be a little more punctual with the next one.

**Warnings:** Slash (**not** graphic, in any way, though. Just romantic, aww :P), self-mutilation (borderline graphic), suicidal thoughts, passing mentions of childhood physical/emotional abuse, and other heavy, angsty themes. And there is some swearing, hopefully nothing too offensive.

**Disclaimer:** Sadly, they're not mine. Oh the fun I'd have if they were. No profit is being made (also sad, but true), but Bruckheimer deserves it for giving us such an awesome imaginative playground.

* * *

As Greg's struggling slowly began to subside, it was replaced with deep tremors, creating a palsied shaking in his limbs, and tearing strangled sounds from his throat. Nick, though relieved that the thin man he was restraining was beginning to calm down, didn't entirely trust in the reprieve.

Still, he allowed a small ray of hope to penetrate that darkness that now encompassed them both; continuing to protectively (_funny… I always thought I'd have to protect him from the people we put away, not himself…_) hold the smaller man, whispering words of reassuring nonsense, lips pressed against his ear as the shuddering form below him slowly stilled. Encouraged by this, Nick eased himself up slightly, still warily keeping hold of his lover, ready to restrain him if necessary.

Greg, for his part, kept his gaze downcast, a deep crimson blush of embarrassment creeping up his cheeks and ears as he began to regain control of himself.

"Uh… as cosy as this is, having you on top of me and all, could we maybe move this to the furniture?"

He tried for his old levity (_how long have I been trying – and failing – to fulfil the role of 'Old LabRat Greggo' now?_), tried to use it to cover his humiliation at exposing the darkest corners of his mind… but the flat tonelessness of his voice gave him away.

Nick stared at him for a moment, his deep brown eyes intense and penetrating, scouring Greg's mind and soul, judging the evidence he found there. The object of his attention squirmed under the scrutiny, the bright blush deepening at the implications of concern and fear.

"I… uh, I promise to… to not go nuts again," Greg winced at the statement the instant that it left his lips.

The dark-haired Texan stared piercingly at him for a moment longer; however, he apparently found something that made him believe the younger man, as he relented, rising reluctantly and offering a hand to the man still lying prone on the floor. He easily swung the lighter (_too light, another matter we need to deal with_) man upwards, and, fingers still twined together, led him back to the couch. Nick, retaining this constant physical contact, sat in Greg's immediate field of vision, perched on the edge of the coffee table, grasping the younger man's smaller hands within his own.

"So… talk to me. Tell me everything."

"Tell me everything."

The emotional nuances, of concern, care, interest, and… a hint of despair, of desperation, resounded deep in Greg's conscience; shaking loose his reticence and spreading cracks in the walls of his bleak mental fortress.

His vision tunnelled and he inhaled sharply, before exhaling in a prolonged sigh.

"I don't even know how to start," the helpless, defeated tone in the younger man's voice created a painful twinge in Nick's stomach.

"And… and that's half the problem," he sighed.

Nick squeezed his slender fingers gently, supportively, wordlessly encouraging Greg in what was evidently a difficult endeavour (_how rare is it for __**Greg**__ to be at a loss for words?_).

"I just… I can't talk, never been able to, not about the important things," the tension began to rise in the younger man's blood, stiffening his limbs and agitating him into jerky, angry movements.

"What the hell is wrong with me!? Even after you were _buried alive_, for God's sake, you got over it, you talked about it, I have a bit of a bad year and I'm still… I just… I don't know how," he punctuated the irritation of his statement, attempting to rise, but Nick instantly tightened his grip.

"Woah, hey there Greggo, calm down," he intoned, pulling his lover back down onto the couch, pinning him there with the intensity of his gaze.

"Sorry, sorry," the blonde mumbled, "I promised to behave, so… unless –" he wiggled his eyebrows in a shallow imitation of his usual irreverent, suggestive self.

"Unless you want to take this into the bedroom and I'll show you precisely how misbehaved I can be?"

The brief tightening of Nick's grip on his hands – almost painful in its fleeting pressure – corresponding with the visible clenching of the Texan's square jaw, made Greg almost physically flinch. Against his will, his downcast eyes were inexorably drawn upwards to meet Nick's sharp eyes, surreptitiously taking in the annoyed angle of the dark eyebrows.

The younger man laughed haltingly, nervously; there was no humour in it. Nick's expression didn't lighten in the least, and Greg abruptly cut himself off, pulling a hand free and running it self-consciously through his hair, before resuming a clammy and slightly shaking grip on Nick's hand.

"Uh… see what I mean?"

Nick sighed in a combination of exasperation and concern; the more impatient part of his mind wanted to dismiss this conversation as evidence that Greg was incapable of taking anything seriously. A fleeting glimpse of bloodstained bandage protruding from the long-sleeved shirt quickly obliterated the frustrated reflection; serious, serious _defined_ this whole nightmarish discovery.

The silence created by this inner turmoil was misinterpreted by Greg, whose carefully veiled insecurities took advantage of this auditory abyss; but the small part of his psyche, the one relieved that maybe, just maybe, he could reveal himself, his true self, to someone, let them in. And that Nick was the only person he'd even consider letting get that close, trust (_God how I hate that word_) him to not use the hidden sorrows he found against Greg.

(_Why can't I be serious? I need to be serious. He's angry and he doesn't understand… because I don't let him understand. He can't take this seriously, can't help, can't do anything, not if I don't take it seriously too_). Finally, the repetitive monologue spilled forth into the silence stretching between the men, breaking their introspection and startling them both.

"I'll uh… I'll try to be serious, but, I, well…" Greg exhaled heavily in frustration at his own inability to communicate the maelstrom of thoughts in his head, and used his anger to force the rest from his mouth.

"I'm not good at being serious, at this whole, this _talking_ thing. No-one's ever, well, taken me seriously before, so I can't take myself seriously anymore, and I'm afraid that if I do, if I say something _really important_ then it'll be out there and I'll be so emotionally invested in these, these words, and then it'll be like it's always been and everyone will just dismiss it again. Only it'll be worse, because if I don't take it seriously, well, it doesn't matter if they don't, 'cause I can pretend it's all a big joke."

Following that onslaught of words (_where the hell did all that come from?_), the blonde breathed in deeply, eyes firmly focused on his hands, slowly drifting up to meet his Texan lover's gaze, afraid of what he'd see… afraid of the inevitable dismissal.

Not expecting the concern, love, encouragement he saw there.

Not expecting the sadness and anger at those who had dismissed him.

Not expecting the bright sheen of tears.

Not expecting that _understanding_.

Nick's eyes had remained focused on Greg, widening a little in shock at the sudden verbal tumult that had escaped his boyfriend. The younger man had frequently impressed (and sometimes irritated) those around him with his speedy and prolonged monologues, but, Nick realised, he was right; it was always frivolous. Whenever a serious tone entered into their conversations, Greg seemed to cringe, in some indefinable way, waiting to be trodden on, laughed at.

And most of their co-workers were only too happy to oblige. To dismiss.

The brunette's intense gaze blurred slightly as tears welled, and through that watery veil his eyes met with Greg's; expressing, as they always did, a wealth of emotions, shining through the windows to his thoughts, his soul.

Brown eyes reflected his own thoughts, lids lowering briefly in a slight frown, before widening in shock, when no disparagement was forthcoming. And maybe, there was, yes –

Hope.

(_Oh, Greggo, what happened to you? Is it this amazin' that someone cares enough to listen?_)

So. For the first time, he'd managed to get Greg to open up, even just this infinitesimal amount; Nick was once again seized by a sense of urgency, to _keep Greg talking_, to not let the troubled younger man slip back into the silence that was slowly devouring him.

"Who dismissed you, darlin'?" Emotion thickened his drawl.

Greg sighed.

"At the risk of sounding emo-" the beginnings of self-deprecating levity were abruptly ended by the gravity of Nick's gaze, "-sorry. Uh. Everyone, I guess. Not that I blame you!" he hastily added, squeezing his lover's hand reassuringly.

"Just, uh, from the beginning I guess. When I got beaten up, pushed down stairs, when I came so close to-" the hesitation and quick attempt at cover-up didn't go unnoticed by Nick's honed investigative ear, "-uh, when things got really bad, everyone ignored me, said I was a filthy little liar, making trouble, seeking attention, that… that it didn't matter. That it couldn't be serious, because it was, well, uh, just because it was _me_."

The blonde rubbed his eyes self-consciously, then stared into the corner of the room, eyes glassy as he stared at things that Nick couldn't see.

"Then it just became… too hard, I guess. Like, what was the point? Why say anything when no-one's going to listen? Talking, doing anything, it was too hard, too pointless, easier to be numb, to be nothing… But then sometimes it all came back, still does, just – everything I couldn't say. It all comes back at once and it's too much, it's just too much."

Nick's jaw clenched in synchronisation with his tightening grip on Greg's hands; halfway through his revelation, the younger man had begun to subconsciously scratch at the bandages wrapped around his forearms.

"It's just too much…"


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's notes:** thank you very much to those who reviewed and added me to my favourite :) You made my day! Please let me know what you think! This is the final chapter, so I'd love to hear what you thought of the story. I've vaguely written something of a sequel, I may post it if anyone's interested. Sorry for the delay in updating, I just finished an 80-page archaeological field work report!

**Warnings:** Slash (**not** graphic, in any way, though. Just romantic, aww :P), self-mutilation (borderline graphic), suicidal thoughts, passing mentions of childhood physical/emotional abuse, and other heavy, angsty themes. And there is some swearing, hopefully nothing too offensive.

**Disclaimer:** Sadly, they're not mine. Oh the fun I'd have if they were. No profit is being made (also sad, but true), but Bruckheimer deserves it for giving us such an awesome imaginative playground.

* * *

When it became apparent that the silence into which the two lovers had lapsed was not going to be broken by the blonde, Nick cleared his throat gently, willing the younger man to meet his piercing gaze.

"Hey, look at me sweetheart. What... how bad are we talking?"

Greg gave another short, barking laugh, closing his eyes for a moment, seeking composure that he knew he would not find. His companion swallowed convulsively, knowing the answer, dreading it, but needing to hear it all the same. Nick knew that to get past this, to begin to move on, they needed to clear the air, burn away the shadows of the past that haunted his boyfriend's eyes, his mind, his every move.

"I started, uh, _this_," Greg gestured vaguely at the bandages, "when I was about… 12, I guess? Things, well, they pretty much went downhill from there."

"Jesus, Greggo," Nick breathed. "12? That's, you were so young, why'd you do it?"

The DNA expert's head snapped upwards, and the fear of being dismissed and disregarded resurfaced, reflected in his bright brown eyes. His perceptive partner, quickly reading the expression and realising how the insecure young man must have interpreted the comment, clarified;

"I just want to understand why, why then, why now. I know you don't get upset over nothing, and if it upsets you, then hell, I _need_ to know," he emphasised the soft words with an equally gentle squeeze of the slender hand that he held. Greg nodded slowly in comprehension.

"Hey, I know I didn't live on the streets or anything, I had a house to live in and food to eat, sometimes wonder if it was worth it," he trailed off and ducked his head. "Sorry, uh, would you believe me if I said I didn't mean to say that last part out loud?"

Again trapped under that penetrating gaze, Greg obeyed the unspoken command to expand on his mumbled comment.

"It's no biggy, I mean, God, we see much worse in our line of work, hey? Few broken bones, some bruises, nothing… nothing…" he stopped again, and Nick's concern grew as his boyfriend's emotions once again rapidly shifted gears, moving from depressed self-dismissal to barely-contained anger. "I don't even need people to tell me my problems are insignificant anymore, I do it for them!"

He took a deep breath, glancing up at Nick's concerned countenance, before visibly forcing himself to relax a little.

"Sorry, there I go again. Anyway, uh, you asked why? That's why, there was just so much shit, on all fronts, at school, at home, in my head… everyone took their anger, frustration, disappointment, insecurities, whatever, out on me, and then told me to suck it up. To be what they couldn't, to hold it all inside. So I guess I took it out on the only person I could, the only way I could…"

"On yourself."

The sadness in Nick's voice made Greg want to take it all back, made him almost wish he hadn't said anything… until it registered, in the back of his depression-mired mind, that there had been the unmistakable sound of _understanding _in those two simple words.

Understanding that was present – both in tone and in the very meaning behind the words - in his lover's carefully chosen continuation.

"So this, what happened tonight… All the pressure just build up, huh sweetheart?"

No recrimination, no application of guilt, just simple statement of fact; Greg felt a burning in his throat and eyes at the soft, caring manner in which Nick drew out the story.

"Yeah… What with the way things have been going with people at work, and… all this shit in my head, that shouldn't be there. God, I'm so happy with you, I love you so much, and I still think about how easy that final step would be, and it won't go away, and I just don't know what's wrong with me that – "

Nick's eyes widened as he realised the implications of Greg's ramble of self-loathing, the deeper, darker secret lurking beneath all this.

"Woah, back up for a second there, Greggo," it took all of his self-restraint to broach the subject sensitively, instead of grabbing the younger man by the shoulders and shaking him. "The final step? As in…"

He couldn't say it. The very thought of it…

Greg gasped out a sound that was equal parts laugh and sob, then bit his bottom lip to prevent more of the same escaping.

"Please… please don't think I don't love you, I do. That's what makes it, makes me, so stupid. Things now, with you, God, this is the best my life has ever been, so… why am I still like this? I want it all to go away, I want to just be able to enjoy what we have, but I'm starting to think that I'm just fucked, I don't deserve this, that something has to happen, because there's no such thing as happiness. I feel alone and it's stupid, because, intellectually, I know you're always here… And now I hate myself because I still just want to die, even though you're the best thing that ever happened to me, Nicholas Stokes."

At this final declaration, Greg raised his head, at last meeting Nick's imploring, intense gaze. He held the stare, even as the tears finally rose in his dark eyes (_though maybe that darkness is lifting, just a little_, Nick wondered), his slender fingers turning white as he held on to his salvation, his saviour, his soulmate.

"I'm drowning, and the pain is the only thing that keeps me from going under. It seems like I'm alone in this fucking fog in my head, and I'm afraid… of myself, and… God, I'm so afraid that I'll lose you."

He choked as the darkness, and the fear, and the doubt, and the frailty, rushed from him in a torrent of despair, cracking his voice as it broke through his remaining shields; exposing him as the tired, scared little boy he was, hidden beneath a shell of flippancy and humour.

The instant that Nick heard the crack in his voice, he felt his own heart break in tandem, and he was instantly beside Greg on the soft leather couch, pulling the broken man before him into a secure embrace.

"You're not alone, and I'm not going anywhere. You hear me?"

The Texan felt the folds of his shirt being clenched between tense fingers; felt the slow spread of warm tears against his chest. He tightened his grasp, needing to reassure himself that the fragile man he cradled lovingly had not yet disappeared, unashamedly letting the tears fall from his own eyes as he reflected on how close he had come to losing the most important thing he'd ever had.

And that he might not have known until it was too late.

Nick swallowed hard as his imagination provided him with play-by-play accounts of the other ways in which he could have discovered Greg's suicidal thoughts… and they all ended the same. Lips pressed to the blonde head resting against his shoulder, he voiced his concerns.

"G… I can't lose you. We need to help you, get you help, whatever you need, just promise me I'm not going to come home and – and find you cold, in a pool of your own blood," unwelcome visions of that exact scene, from earlier in the night, flashed in Nick's mind's eye, "promise me that you won't push me out again, that you'll let me help, that you'll try."

Greg sniffled quietly, before nodding against Nick's tear-stained chest.

"I promise… I just don't know how to begin, I don't know how else to _be_. I've been this way for so long now, inflicting one kind of pain to keep the rest under control –" he looked up at his lover, eyes large and painfully revealing.

"I don't know what else to do."

The older man smiled gently, for what felt like the first time in a thousand years, looking down at the love of his life, seeing the man he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, the beautiful creature that he'd almost lost.

"You come to me, Greggo. We'll figure this out, together."

They welcomed the new day with a long, passionate kiss, their lips meeting as the sun crept over the horizon of the Nevada desert. And, as far back as either man could remember, they had never seen a more beautiful sunrise.


End file.
